


the hero's journey

by illmatchtheminrenown



Category: Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illmatchtheminrenown/pseuds/illmatchtheminrenown
Summary: Fiyero is not a hero.





	

_**call to adventure** _

He might be a prince, but there is nothing heroic about Fiyero Tiggular. Of that, he is certain. Or he was. Until now. Until he is somehow the only person left standing (other than _her_ ), and some part of him propels his feet forward, reaches his arms out, closes his hands around the cage, and _runs_. That same part of him yells for her to come too - this is her fault, after all. But that part of him isn’t him, not really, because _he_ doesn’t care about anything unless it gets him what he wants.

And would a hero ever be found on the edges of a forest, trying to get a word in edgewise while a very angry green girl yelled at him? Would a hero stalk off in disgust at the mere mention of possibly being a hero? No. As we’ve established, Fiyero is not a hero.

But then there’s a warm hand in his, and he closes over it instinctively. And when Elphaba reaches forward to brush the blood off his cheek, he turns his cheek into her hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. For that split-second of eye contact, after she touches him but before he breaks away, something in him shifts, and Fiyero finds himself _seeing_ someone for the first time, seeing something beyond sidelong glances and stylish clothes and lithe limbs. It’s something he hasn’t felt before (no, not even with Galinda, and that’s another reason he turns away - you don’t have to be a hero to feel guilt), and he’s not entirely sure he wants to. 

So he does what he always does when things aren’t easy: he runs away. He can feel her disappointed eyes watching him as he dashes off, cage in hand. The last thing he sees before turning his focus forward is a glimpse of her white shirt and a patch of red flowers. She might be right about most things (okay, nearly _everything_ ), but he takes pleasure in knowing she is wrong about him. Fiyero is not a hero.

_**refusal of the call** _

Fiyero cannot get her out of his mind. And that’s a problem. But hell if he isn’t going to try.

He does, however, have to at least meet her at the train station to send her off. Galinda insists, and, if he’s honest (that’s new), he’s pretty proud of her too. They’re friends, or at least something resembling friends, and he knows a little of how hard she works and how much she’s wanted this. He’s caught glimpses of her in the library, even benefitted from her impeccable notes now and then (always accompanied with a sigh of exasperation, but he’s found he rather enjoys the game of pulling that sigh out of her). So of course, he’s happy for her. 

He brings her flowers - red, like the ones in the forest that day, though he would swear that it’s because they were the cheapest. When he sees her, it’s as if something in her calls to something in him, and he dashes straight to her, running right past Galinda by accident, and holds out his pathetic offering.

And he is too brainless, too foolish to find the words to express all the complicated thoughts running through his mind, and besides, his mind is not used to having to deal with complicated thoughts running through it. So he settles for the simple ones, and hopes she’ll understand. 

Elphaba looks up when he says he thinks about that day a lot. She looks straight in his eyes and again, he knows she _sees_. And he _sees_ too. But that’s all he does. 

He stands and watches her board the train, catching one last glimpse of a green hand clutching those red poppies. A hero would have dashed after her, but remember, Fiyero is not a hero.

_**the meeting with the goddess** _

“Spread out! Report back here in an hour. Except, you, Tiggular, you’re on guard duty.” The captain of the guards issues his orders, and a battalion of green-uniformed men dutifully scatter off in opposite directions. Fiyero doesn’t mind being left behind, truth be told. Old habits die hard, and this assignment means he can stay here and relax, rather than traipsing through rough terrain in vain pursuit. 

(She’s too smart for you to catch, you don’t know a thing about her, he wants to tell them. But he doesn’t, because he knew Elphaba, and they are searching for the Witch, so what could he possibly tell them about the Witch? That’s how he reconciles his divided loyalties - a problem a hero would never have. But he’s not a hero, remember?) 

He looks around. He knows this patch of forest - not far from Shiz. Fiyero’s heart rate accelerates as he remembers why he recognizes this place. The last time he stopped in this clearing, he was not alone. 

The tiniest rustle of leaves suggests that he is not alone this time, either. Fiyero glances up to the trees nearby, but seeing nothing, smiles to himself. He strolls over to the pile of traveling packs that his fellow guards had left behind. Methodically, he opens each one and removes something small, something that won’t be missed - a single apple, a handful of nuts, a single slice of bread - then replaces the pack, looking almost exactly as it had before. He opens his own pack, draws out a flask of water, and adds it to the now-sizeable pile before taking a clean, thick blanket from the stack of camping gear and wrapping the pile of food and water in it. 

Fiyero sets it down, adds one more item on top of the package, and then walks several paces away, turning his back.

“That horrible Madame found that photo, you know,” he begins conversationally. “She barged right into her rooms, started sifting through for things that might connect her to you. Assuring her it was all for her own good, of course. And she found that. Must’ve been taken on that trip to the Emerald City. And then, Madame said she had to get rid of it, destroy it, something. She begged and pleaded and cried, and finally I stepped in. Said I’d be the one to get rid of it, that way she wouldn’t have to lie if anyone asked her if she destroyed proof of your friendship.”

He takes a deep breath, continues, remembering the image of two girls - one in sunny yellow, one in sober black - positively beaming out of a green-hued photo.

“I know a traveling lifestyle isn’t really conducive to keepsakes. You’re not the sentimental type, anyhow. And, yeah, I just used the word ‘conducive.’ Proud of me? Nah, you’re probably laughing at me. And this uniform. She suggested I join the guards, you know, so I could come to the city with her. It meant dropping out of school, but when has that ever stopped me before? Anyway. I promised her I’d keep the picture safe. So… that’s what I’m doing.”

Fiyero stops then. He is too cowardly to turn around, not brave enough to strike out from the path and offer anything more than this. He could - but he couldn’t. He waits a few more minutes, looking off in the distance, before turning around. 

The package is gone, and so is the picture. In its place is a single red bloom with an oddly bright sheen to it, which he scoops up and tucks into his jacket, against his chest, before the others return.

Several days later, he looks at the poppy bloom more closely. It has not wilted one bit; indeed, it looks like it could have been frozen in this state for week or even… months. Fiyero’s breath catches as he realizes that maybe they are both more sentimental than they thought.

But he could have done so much more. A hero would have done so much more. Fiyero is not a hero… although right now, sitting under the sky with this flower that’s come full circle, maybe he wishes he could be.

**_the ordeal (the reward)_ **

This is his greatest test. It has to be. Because he runs in, and _there she is_ , terrified and fierce all at once. There is an instant in which he wishes it was someone else in the room, because he doesn’t want to have to do any of this. But Fiyero knows already what he’s going to do. He knows from the second he hears his name fall from her lips, slightly parted in surprise, something almost gentle in her voice, even in her startled, on-edge state. He hates seeing the fear and disappointment in her eyes when he trains his rifle on her, and prays that what he’s about to do will be enough to erase that. He doesn’t need to be a hero to Oz, but being a hero for her wouldn’t be so bad.

And then Glinda arrives, and that wasn’t supposed to happen, and all hell breaks loose, he can’t get Elphaba to flee like he planned to. And this time, he does the heroic thing he hasn’t been able to do in years: he leads with his morals and his heart. There’s something about _her_ that brings out that side in him, he supposes.

For a moment, after his declaration, he looks at Glinda’s face and sees more true emotion than he’s seen in years. And despite his quick thinking to help Elphaba, despite his heroic hostage-taking of the Wizard, Fiyero realizes he is no hero - he is too heartless for that, because he turns his back on her, grabbing Elphaba’s hand and running away.

Later ( _later_ ), Fiyero is assured that he is not heartless at all, or else how could his heart be so full? This is love and lust and desperation and fulfillment, all at once, and all he sees is _her, her her_. _Her_ green skin, _her_ head thrown back, _her_ long dark hair loose like a curtain around them both. He can _feel_ the magic coursing through her veins and through their bodies. And maybe, just maybe, he is a hero after all, because lying here with her, all green and black and stars, has to be a hero’s reward.

But deep down, he knows they can’t stay there (no matter how skilled and persuasive he is or how deliciously quick a learner she is). And that’s when he remembers that he can’t keep his reward, because he is not a hero.

(But _she_ is a hero, and so he vows that she can keep him - he is happy to be her prize in a way he was never happy to be well-coiffed arm candy).

**_the resurrection_ **

A hero doesn’t have to make it out of his journey for his journey to have been a success. That’s what Fiyero realizes as he sits up in a tree, watching the scene unfold below. He got them both out once before, but there’s no bluff left to play - he’s not as brainless as he seems. His heart is full of sorrow even as courage and adrenaline pump through his veins when he lands on the ground, rifle aimed.

He gets to make a last stand, one last act, and he’s going to make it worthwhile. There is no future for him, but there is a goal left to achieve. And that goal is her, it’s always been her. If he had been braver, if he had been a hero, he would have been the one to lead her into a dance all those years ago at the Ozdust. It’s always been her. 

(It’s always been both of them, his girls, his beautiful, powerful, brilliant girls who have forced him to see himself.)

A hero would have kissed the girl before his last stand, he thinks ruefully, but there is no time for heroics. There is only what must be done, and he does it, and that final look will last him all his days - or minutes, which is more likely.

Fiyero’s vision begins to blur, turning black with swirls of green and the occasional sparkle of pink and silver, and a single bright spot of red. And he smiles, even though it hurts to pull his torn face into an expression of joy.

They had argued about so much, but as always, she was right, and this time, he was happy to let her win the argument. Maybe he was a hero, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For those unfamiliar, the section headings are based on a writing theory called "The Hero's Journey" or the "monomyth", first put forth by scholar Joseph Campbell, which has seventeen stages of the journey - I use 5 here, not consecutive stages, but they are in order.
> 
> Much love and gratitution to the lovely @MerinaThropp, who has been encouragerizing me to write for this fandom for ages, and to my brilliant friend who shall remain nameless but without whom I couldn't have written this story.


End file.
